


The Scent of Pomegranates

by hes5thlazarus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved.
Relationships: Fenris & Merrill (Dragon Age)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23
Collections: Genuary 2021





	The Scent of Pomegranates

In Antiva, the People eat pomegranates for the new year, and Merrill was told at the Arlathvhen that it is the same for their cousins in Tevinter, even those lost to the bondage of the cities. In Ferelden, though, the clans celebrate differently, and in Kirkwall, Merrill feels lost. She would like to know how Sabrae is adapting to a new year in the Free Marches, without Keeper, but she has lost the audacity to ask. Anxious, Merrill steps out to a golden morning, the Vhenadahl resplendent in red and purple and bronze. An aravel and a team of halla stand before it. Athenril is setting up a stand. She’s curious. She knows the Hahren is organizing a celebration tonight, but she didn’t expect Athenril to try to capitalize.  
  
“Aneth ara, lethallin,” Merrill says. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Selling,” Athenril says coldly. She doesn’t like her. She’s Dalish too, from a clan in the Wycombe delta, but does not wear the vallaslin. Word travels fast between the clans. None of the Dalish give her much time.  
  
“Oh,” Merrill says. “What are you selling then?”  
  
Athenril looks up at her, annoyed. “Pomegranates,” she says shortly. “From Tevinter.”  
  
“All the way from Tevinter!” Merrill exclaims. That is not an easy journey for the People. “For pomegranates!” Athenril looks shifty and Merrill suddenly realizes that Athenril probably did not venture forth all the way to the groves of Minrathous just to sell pomegranates to the Kirkwall alienage. She steps back. “Oh, are these stolen? Why’d you steal them for? Are you giving them away? Isn’t it an impractical idea, to ship pomegranates to Kirkwall? What merchant would even bring them here? Isn’t it better to just steal them from Antiva?”  
  
“Merrill,” Athenril says, exasperated, “go away.”  
  
Merrill leaves, distraught but determined to shrug it off. She snatches a pomegranate when Athenril isn’t looking and heads to the market, debating what she’ll stick in the stew she’ll make for dinner. She doesn’t like cabbage but it’s cheap and she doesn’t have much money from the job she and Hawke took on. Varric will send her a whole five-course meal if he knew, but Merrill is not interested in being the object of charity. With Audacity dead and Marethari with it, all she has left is her pride--pride and cabbages, and then several turnips and a head of lettuce and a bag of tomatoes, because she knows how to stretch a sovereign, and she really likes turnips.  
  
On her way back from the market Merrill runs into Anders and Fenris, arguing as passionately as ever. She crooks an eyebrow and creeps up behind them. It’s not eavesdropping when they really should be more aware of their surrounders, renegade mage and runaway slave such as they are. She is slightly disappointed when she hears about what they are arguing about--it’s not the right for all free-willed creatures to roam without limits, or the best way to police magical abuses. They are arguing about cabbages.  
  
“It’s repetitive,” Fenris says. “It takes like Sandal’s old socks. You keep feeding your patients that, you’ll make them so sick they’ll keep coming back.”  
  
“They come back because the air in Kirkwall is quite literally poison,” Anders snaps, “not because my cooking is shit. My cooking is fine. Hawke doesn’t complain.”  
  
“I have watched Hawke eat a deep mushroom they found growing in a crevice in the sewer,” Fenris says. “I would not take that as an accomplishment.”  
  
“Cabbage is good for you,” Merrill ventures, and suppresses a smile when they both jump and stare at her furiously. “Hello, friends.” Their hackles raise like startled cats. Anders’ eyes flash blue, and Fenris’ tattoos shine. Merrill hums, amused. She never thought she’d make such shiny friends.  
  
“Don’t _do_ that,” Anders says. “Creeping up like that. Ugh.”  
  
“Or you could learn to pay attention, mage,” Fenris says.  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you were startled too!”  
  
“Drink?” Merrill interrupts, before they can begin their bickering instead. She has learned a few things from the Keeper, and steering her friends towards a watering hole like bad-tempered halla is the best of them. Groceries jostling in the wicker baster on her arm, she still manages to net her arms around both Fenris and Anders. They settle in for a drink, which turns to five, and soon Merrill is arguing hotly about the validity of Ralaferin’s Five Theses on Mana Frisson when considering First Enchanter Vivienne’s proof of a rounded earth. She brandishes the pomegranate at Anders, who has broken into her grocery basket and is eating a turnip like an apple. She always knew she liked him, she thinks distractedly, a man who eats turnips like an apple can’t be that bad.  
  
“This is the world,” she says. “Look at it.”  
  
Anders looks at the pomegranate doubtfully. Fenris sighs and gets up to get them water.  
  
“The shoot,” she puts the pomegranate down onto the table and points with both index fingers, “is how the Waking World interacts with both the Fade and the Abyss in both ends. I think. Er. Or maybe the bottom is the abyss and the top is where the Fade sprouts.”  
  
Fenris comes back and hands her a cup of water. “Merrill, please. Drink.” She smiles at him and takes it. As she drinks, Fenris takes the pomegranate and presses it down onto the table until it cracks. He rolls it around. Merrill giggles.  
  
“This reminds me,” Fenris starts to say, then stops. He peers at it, face twisting. “I’m not sure what.”  
  
“Athenril took them off a shipment from Tevinter,” Merrill says. “Maybe it’s that?”  
  
Fenris shoves it at her and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. His hair flops into his eyes, which looks quite uncomfortable. Merrill let her hair grow out once, but it was itchy. She supposes it makes a statement, but she never quite understands what Fenris is trying to say. “I almost--it’s like I felt the sun on my back. Burning, but the day was cold. But I wasn’t--unhappy.” Merrill takes the pomegranate and carefully slices it open with her knife. It spreads open, seeds crushed, and the juice spills onto the admittedly-grimey table. Fenris inhales deeply, then coughs. The Hanged Man stinks. “The smell….”  
  
“I know elves in Antiva eat them for the new year,” Merrill says carefully. There are things missing from her memory, like the first few awful days after Tamlen disappeared and Mahariel was taken--and she does not remember how Hawke got her back to her house after Marethari died. Still, Fenris’ amnesia is so enormous, she is almost afraid to broach it. She exchanges a glance with Anders, who is keeping very still. “Perhaps they do it in Tevinter too.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Fenris says distractedly. “I--Danarius had an estate in Seheron, but the weather….”  
  
“We’d eat them,” Merril says hurriedly. She resolves to distract him. “Before I was given to Clan Sabrae. Every new year, we’d go pick the fruit. It’s not like it is in Rivain, but there are a few of the People who have land, and the clans would gather to celebrate the end of the year and help bring in the last of the harvest.” She smiles wistfully. “Frolicking, you know. The dancing! The music...Sabrae was a bit more somber, but that’s Ferelden. Kirkwall’s less sedate, at least. I think they’re planning something in the alienage tonight. Athenril has a stand out, at least.” If they’re not planning something, she’ll make something up. Clan Sabrae may not like her but the Hahren enjoys her company. Impulsively she takes his hand, making sure she doesn’t touch the lyrium-brand. “Why don’t you come back to the alienage with me?” She doesn’t like the idea of him going back to that awful corpse-ridden mansion of his, not upset like this.  
  
Fenris looks down, hair obscuring his eyes. Merrill blinks--that must be so uncomfortable! He needs a haircut. “That would be acceptable,” he says softly. He straightens, shaking his hair out of face. “Yes, let’s.” They go to the alienage, leaving Anders behind at the pub, and find the Vhenadahl transformed, decked with garlands of embrium and crystal grace. A band is playing, and Merrill taps the rhythm into the cold Kirkwall streets. The cobbles are smoother here, meant for bare feet.  
  
Fenris says, “So this is what you meant by frolicking.”  
  
Merrill, surprised, laughs. “No, the Dalish do it better.” She contemplates making something up about nudity and moonlight, just to see if he’ll believe her, but Fenris snorts.  
  
“I don’t want to know,” he says, but Merrill thinks he does, and when the Hahren waves her over to join the celebrations, she takes Fenris with her too.


End file.
